The Enhancement of John Watson
by Copgirl
Summary: Sherlock is sent on an impromptu mission and John is worried - perhaps for good reason. This story is a birthday gift for Johnarmylady and was kindly beta-ed by MLC. Established Johnlock and Mystrade, but the latter couple plays only a minor role.
1. Chapter 1

In this story you'll find some reference of the "event" in the story "No Sincerer Love". It will make sense without having read it but no harm knowing what's going on in that story. Naturally The Enhancement of John Watson takes place after "No Sincerer Love" - about a couple of weeks later.

Yes, I could have drawn out the events of this story but I think it makes a nice read as it is. Since it is almost finished, updates will be quite frequently.

* * *

John didn't make a sound while the paramedic dabbed the wound at his knuckles with antiseptic. He was still way too agitated to notice the stinging.

"I don't think you need stitches," the woman told him. "I dressed the bruise and your hand should be as good as new within a few days."

He could have told her that himself but John only nodded and let her do her work.

"There," she said, and gave her patient a pat on the shoulder.

"Thanks," John said and left the ambulance to come face to face with Greg Lestrade who had waited for him. The DI stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest and for a moment John wondered if he would punch him in the face or arrest him.

Instead, the grey-haired man surprised John. "You need a lift home?"

For a moment John was speechless but then he nodded and climbed into the car. They drove for several minutes without speaking. Finally Greg spoke up.

"When I heard what he did, I was pretty angry too."

Not certain how to reply, John made a non-committal sound that could be translated into almost anything. 'Punch me in the face' seemed to be the subtext in the normal speech pattern of both Holmes brothers and the doctor for once had acted upon it and punched Mycroft.

"Mycroft is going to be a pain in the arse for the next two weeks. A piece of one of his incisors was broken off when you hit him," Greg added.

John already knew because said tooth had broken the skin of his knuckle.

"Not the pain in the arse you would enjoy, I presume," John dead-panned.

"Arsehole!" Greg replied, the following chuckle ruining the curse. "Did Mycroft explain why he sent Sherlock to Springfield? The last I heard on the news half the town is burning from the riots, at least eight people were killed and the state of emergency was declared."

"Actually he did. A favour for the PM and I'm damn sure he could have refused. That's the reason why I punched Mycroft and why I need to be at the airport no later than 7:30 to catch a flight to New York."

Greg's eyebrow's shot up. "Mate, I don't want to sound pessimistic but I don't think you'll get a flight to New York without prior booking these days."

"Not if you fly first class," John replied, waving Mycroft's credit card in front of Greg's face. The good doctor apparently had taken a leaf out of Sherlock's book.

"Definitely a pain in the arse." Having stopped at a red light, the DI banged his head against the steering wheel. "I hope Mycroft is not going to start a war."

"Perhaps you could, uhm, distract him so I'm not getting arrested the moment I arrive at JFK."

Greg studied John from the corner of his eyes. "You do know that I love that man?"

"That's exactly why I'm asking you and not his secretary."

John produced a satisfying "oof", when the DI's elbow connected not too gently with the doctor's ribcage.

"All right, I'll try. But if he finds out about the credit card, you're on your own."


	2. Chapter 2

Ted Neilson sat in his office in Langley, when an email alert startled him. Mail from Homeland Security. Reading the text a smile spread over his face. Sherlock Holmes, the man who had thrown his brother Terrance out of a window two years ago, had come to the USA yesterday. Not only had he come to the US, he went to Springfield where state of emergency was installed. So much could happen in such a place.

Terrance was no longer with the CIA and it was Sherlock Holmes' fault, that he now earned a living by running a store that sold weapons and equipment for hunters. Ted dialled his brother's number and told him he would pick him up in a couple of hours. They were going to make an impromptu trip to Springfield.

oOo

When John switched his mobile back on after having passed immigration and customs he had two texts from Greg.

 _He's distracted for now but you better hurry. GL_

 _Mind if I stay in the spare bedroom of 221b for a bit? GL_

 _Fabs. And no, go ahead. Care to tell me what happened? JW_

 _In a nutshell: Mycroft is too fluffy to act out food-kink that involves mousse au chocolate. GL_

 _Thanks, mate. My synapses are thoroughly fried and I probably need months of therapy to remove that image from my brain. JW_

After he had sent the text, John called the number of West Point Military Academy.

"This is Captain John Watson. I need to speak to Colonel Douglas Grant." He waited about a minute until he got the man himself on the phone.

"Hey Doug, it's John. Hope you received my email."

"Of course, I did. You are lucky you came over now. On Sunday Marilyn and I are flying to Hawaii for our 25th wedding anniversary."

"Twenty-five years? And she can stand you, still?"

"I'm not as notorious as a certain Captain John 'Three Continents' Watson." Grant produced a braying laugh. "But from what I've been reading in your mail you didn't come over to discuss personal affairs. You want me to help you getting to Springfield?"

"Yes, a friend of mine went there to investigate a murder. I fear for his safety."

"If he's a white, you have all reason. Last night another man was killed, although the place is swarming with the National Guard."

"No shit."

"John, I think it'll be best if I came along. The soldiers there won't take kindly if they have a British ex-army snooping around. You're just another inconvenience they feel they have to look out for. I'm coming with you."

"But you're about to go on holiday in a few days," John protested.

"Five days until my vacation starts and I'm tired of sitting in that damn office."

John nodded although his friend from his time in Afghanistan couldn't see him. Douglas and he had met on a joint mission. The US soldier had saved John by pushing him into a ditch right before a bomb exploded. The following day is was John's turn to save Douglas when he was shot in the leg. The leg couldn't be saved but Douglas survived. Once he had recovered he began teaching at West Point.

Knowing he wouldn't change his army friend's mind, John agreed and ended the call. He followed the signs to Car Rentals and then drove to West Point.


	3. Chapter 3

"And why would a consulting detective from London want to help us with a case of murder in Springfield?" Warren Palin, Springfield's Sheriff, leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed in front of his barrel chest, staring at the pale man with the dark curls, who sat across from him.

"I was asked by the family to help and since Springfield is currently in a somewhat desperate situation because of said murder, you might want to accept my assistance." In his explanation Sherlock had left out a number of facts, which would have only confused the Sheriff. For example, the family of Sean Hawking, no relations to the scientist, didn't even know Sherlock was here. Sean's father William Hawking was a heavy-weight in the conservative party and with the elections coming up the Prime Minister had asked Mycroft to send his brother to help the proceedings along.

Palin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I have a sister who's married to a guy in Northampton and she reads the blog this James Watson writes."

"John!" Sherlock interrupted. "Doctor John Watson."

"John Watson, okay. Anyway, I've heard of you and that you helped the police in London in the past. You're right, we are a bit desperate here and I'm willing to risk letting you into this case but I need to know what you plan to do."

"I need to see where the murder took place and look at the files. Sean Hawking was taken hostage by a group called 'Nightcrawlers'. I'll go and ask them to allow me to talk to their hostage. Afterwards I'll come back and talk to the man you have in custody. Once I'm finished, I should be able to tell you what happened at the scene of murder."

Palin huffed. He drank from a styrofoam coffee-cup and looked at his wristwatch. "I wish I shared your optimism." He stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I can't guarantee you that the 'Nightcrawlers' will talk to you, not kill you or release their hostage upon your word but if you're willing to go, you have my blessings. The National Guard imposed a curfew and we have about four hours of daylight left so we'd better get started."

Sherlock admitted to himself that he somewhat enjoyed being chauffeured around in the police cruiser. Naturally the Springfield police and forensics were as much idiots as their colleagues from NSY but since he hadn't expected anything less he only produced a few hums and head-shakes that only Greg Lestrade, John or his brother would have been able to translate into the usual offerings of Holmesian insults.

Unfortunately, it was already getting dark when Sherlock and the Sheriff had finished visiting the shop where the murder had taken place as well as were the arrest had been made and Sean Hawking had been taken hostage. Instead Sherlock read through the file the police had accumulated and talked to the Jeremiah Cross, the young black man they had arrested for breaking into the small grocery store and later murdering the owner.

Before he talked to Cross, Sherlock inspected the clothes the man had worn that night. Just like Lestrade had done when he had begun working with him, the Sheriff kept asking Sherlock questions and the man was especially taken aback when the detective sniffed every single piece of clothing, including the shoes.

Eventually sitting across from the young black man, Sherlock took in his appearance. He knew from the file that Cross was twenty-one years old, that he had lived in Springfield all his life and that his family consisted of his parents, grandfather and three siblings.

"Why should I trust another white man?" Cross asked him by way of greeting.

"Sheriff Palin is Hispanic. He isn't exactly white," Sherlock answered. "Also the deputy Sheriff's father is black."

Cross only grunted and looked stubbornly at him.

"I have no personal interest in you or Sean Hawking, who has been taken hostage by the 'Nightcrawlers' after your arrest. You can talk to me and let me find out what really happened in that shop or you can go back to your cell and face the court. From what I've read so far in the file, it doesn't look good for you although I have a slightly different opinion on what has happened."

That got Cross' attention. "What do you mean?"

"Are you willing to talk to me? Willing to tell me what happened? The Sheriff has promised me this conversation will be treated confidentially. It's like you're talking to your lawyer. The difference is that I will know when you're lying to me."

"How would you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but since he had nothing to look forward to but a boring hotel-room it didn't really matter how long this conversation would take.

"Tell me a few things about yourself, about your family."

Cross considered the request before he told Sherlock that he had always had trouble at school, that he worked odd jobs and that he feared that his girlfriend was pregnant.

The consulting detective smiled. "Yes, you had trouble at school because you deliberately failed at exams. You could have aquired better marks but that would have set you apart from your friends. Therefore you're unhappy about the odd jobs which will neither support a family nor your drug-problem."

"I don't do drugs," Cross protested.

"Yes, you do. The sluggish movement of your arms and hands is not the only tell-tale sign that you're using."

For a couple of minutes the young man pouted. His arms crossed in front of his chest, like he was protecting himself, he directed his gaze at Sherlock.

"What can you do if I tell you the truth?"

"I can compare your statement with the evidence I've found and tell the Sheriff what happened. But I can tell you right away that you won't walk free. You have been in the shop and you will have to face prosecution for breaking and entering."

Cross nodded and then he began to talk.

oOo

Ted and Terrance Neilson took a room in a cheap motel about thirty miles from Springfield. Buying pizza and several cans of beer, they sat down in their hotel-room to plan carefully how to catch Sherlock Holmes without him noticing it was them, and, if need should arise after all, dispose of the body.

Six cans of beer later they had their plan, a simple but effective one. Catch the man, drive out of town, beat him into a pulp, cut a few tendons in his limbs and leave him. They had found an area that was closed off because a company had buried toxic waste there. Nothing but a few old buildings surrounded by a fence and warning-signs. The perfect place to have some fun with a British consulting detective.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock looked calmly at the young man who stood in front of him. Afro-American, most likely twenty-two years old, although he looked older. He carried two knifes and a gun and was the leader of the seven men who surrounded Sherlock. Well, men was too strong of a word. Kids was more appropriate. All but one came from poor families and the language they understood best was violence.

The 'Nightcrawlers' insisted that the gang-member the Sheriff had arrested three days ago had done nothing wrong and Sean Hawking, who they held hostage, was responsible instead.

"Give me one good reason why we shouldn't kill you," the youngster said to Sherlock. "You're trespassing. This street is ours."

"Because your mother would be upset if you did. She has enough problems without you being involved in my murder."

The man was as skinny as Sherlock used to be when he was still using drugs but the way he carried himself told Sherlock that he was an experienced street-fighter.

"What do you know about my momma?"

"Not much but I know a lot about you," Sherlock replied. "Your last five meals consisted of nothing but soft drinks, most likely coke. You write with your left hand but do everything else with your right. You used to carry three knives but now you carry only two, and the gun you have strapped to your ankle was purchased only three days ago. Furthermore," Sherlock leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "you are gay."

The anger that rose from the young man was palpable. His nostrils flared and he curled his hands into fists but the way he looked at Sherlock revealed that all he had said was true.

"Tell me something about him." The man pointed at a sixteen-year-old who stood close to Sherlock's left side.

The consulting detective barely glanced at him. "He went to McDonald's for lunch, which he shouldn't do because the food gave him an upset stomach. He's the latest addition to this group and right now he wonders if he's made the right decision. He has a baby sister and just recently gave her a kitten."

The kid jumped up. "How do you know that?" he shouted.

"You reek of fast-food and McDonald's is the only place in this vicinity. On your shirt are stains of something pink, Pepto Bismol I presume. Two stains are older than the others so you have to take it more often and your complexion is a dead give-away that you eat fast food almost daily."

"And the kitten for my sister?"

"You wear a strap around your neck that was undoubtedly made by a young girl. You care for her enough to wear it, therefore it's your younger sister. And the wounds on your wrists and hands are scratches and bite-marks typical when a young cat is handled. Perhaps while it was rescued from a rubbish bin."

"What bin?" the kid asked.

"Trash bin," another youngster translated.

"You're creepy," the kid told Sherlock but there was also a gleam of admiration in his dark eyes.

The group brought some distance between their strange visitor and themselves to confer. After several minutes the man Sherlock had talked to first approached him and introduced himself as Zack. "We're taking you to this piece of shit who started the trouble. Try anything funny and you're..." He made a move with his hand that indicated a slit throat.

Sherlock nodded, bored already by their threats.

oOo

Sean Hawking could hardly believe his eyes when Sherlock walked into the barn. The young man's clothes were filthy and he was chained to an old tractor.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and I am here to determine your involvement in the break-in in the shop at the corner of 5th Street and Myrtle and the murder of the shop-owner," Sherlock introduced himself.

Hawking blinked. "You're not here to rescue me?"

"Elections are coming up and your family doesn't appreciate the attention. Studying in the US doesn't make you special."

Hawking looked insulted and Sherlock continued.

"Once the case is solved, you will most likely either walk free or I will deliver you to the police."

"But I am innocent!"

"That remains to be seen," said Sherlock and took a seat on a straw bale. "Why don't you tell me what happened that night."

"Okay. You know I'm in Springfield as a student. Exams are coming up and I needed some fresh air. When I walked past the shop, I saw that the door was open," Hawking said. "Guess it was stupid that I entered. All I wanted was a something to drink and some cigarettes. Once I got those, I left and some hours later those punks," he waved his hand at Zack and the other 'Nightcrawlers', who stood at the door of the barn, "picked me up and brought me here."

Sherlock shook is head. "I have serious doubts that."

"I thought you were on my side," Hawking hissed.

"I am on nobodies side. All I am here for is to find the truth so these riots can stop." Sherlock stood up, stretched to his full height and looked down his nose at Hawking. Having watched his older sibling closely, Sherlock had become really good at looking down his nose too; although his lacked a solid half inch in length.

"You know Jeremiah Cross, the man, who was arrested because you buy drugs from him on a regular basis. You both broke into the shop after your deal but the owner suddenly showed up. You took the gun Jeremiah carried in the waistband of his trousers and shot the shop-owner. Before you two could escape, a police-car stopped in front of the shop. You threw the gun at Jeremiah, who caught it. Therefore the police found traces of powder on his hands. You managed to escape through the basement, where oranges are stored. The smell is still all over your clothes."

Hawking's jaw worked, while he tried to come up with a reply. The members of the 'Nightcrawler' exchanged astonished looks.

"I knew the fucker was guilty," one 'Nightcrawler' growled and pulled a knife from his jacket.

Zack held his friend back and the group and Sherlock left the barn. Facing the gang, Sherlock looked at them with an unwavering, cool demeanour.

"You should not harm that man if you have any interest in Springfield returning back to normal and Jeremiah is only facing charges for the crime he did commit."

Once all 'Nightcrawlers' had nodded their understanding with more or less hesitation, he continued, "I will go to Sheriff Palin. He could either come here and pick Hawking up or you hand him over and I take him."

"No," Zack told Sherlock. " I don't want the Sheriff sniffing around this barn. Sammy will be in charge of Hawking. You two can go and take him to the cop-shop."

The sixteen-year-old, Sherlock had deduced before, looked at Zack in shock.

"Me?"

Zack put an arm around Sammy. "You go with him, man, because I trust you and you've done nothing wrong. You can go without getting arrested. He," Zack pointed at Sherlock, "can go with you but you're in charge, yeah?"

The kid nodded and half an hour later Sammy and Sherlock walked into the Sheriff's office with their prisoner.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft Holmes scratched his head. When the Prime Minister had asked that Sherlock solved this problem he probably didn't have in mind that the son of his fellow party member would go to prison for murder. But then, people loved a good scandal and if he played his cards right the news that the son of a politician had been buying drugs and murdered a man in the US, could just turn the election in the direction the Prime Minister desired. The man was as much an idiot as his predecessor, allowing Mycroft Holmes to remain in the background while pulling the strings.

Still, far more important than Britain's undoubtedly glorious future, he needed to solve the conflict with Gregory, who had temporarily moved to Baker Street to sleep on the hideous sofa instead of next to him, and he had yet to find is bloody credit-card.

oOo

Sherlock hurried back to his hotel to get his belongings. It was another hour before it got dark, enough time to leave this place and get to the airport. With a little luck he would be home the following day. From the Sheriff's office he had sent an email to his brother with the results of his investigations. He wished he could send John a text but for some reason his phone has ceased working the moment he entered the United States. Sherlock would have a serious talk with his provider once he was back home.

As engrossed as he was with the upcoming reunion with his doctor, the detective didn't miss the signs that obviously somebody had tampered with the door to his hotel-room. The door was closed now but there were marks on it typical of a break-in; marks, that hadn't been there before. While he still considered how to proceed, something connected with his back. Pain raced through his body when he received several electric shocks that eventually rendered him unconscious.


	6. Chapter 6

Douglas' presence had been extremely helpful getting John into Springfield, which was still under jurisdiction of the National Guard. From what they learned, a man who had been the hostage of a gang had been released and was now in police custody. Word spread like wildfire through the city that the actual murderer would be prosecuted and that the black man, who had been arrested first, would only be on trial for dealing with drugs as well as breaking and entering. Those were not petty crimes but it was a long way from being a murder suspect.

John entered the police station while Douglas waited outside, talking to some members of the National Guard.

"You're the blogger!" the Sheriff exclaimed to John's surprise, once he had told the man his name. "Warren Palin," the police officer introduced himself. "I fear you've missed Mr Holmes by a mere hour. If you're luck you'll catch him at his hotel."

That was very good news. "Which hotel is he staying at?"

"Motel 8. It's just a couple of blocks from here."

Palin accompanied John outside and pointed in the direction they had to go and less than five minutes later knocked at the door of what was supposed to be Sherlock's room.

Nothing. Not a sound.

The woman at the reception desk had told him that Sherlock hadn't checked out and finding the room, the door right before the vending machine, had been easy enough. John was about to go back to the reception when he noticed stress marks on the floor. The marks in the industrial carpet that covered the floor of the vestibule looked like something or rather somebody had been dragged to the back of the motel.

Immediately John's heart sped up. He followed the stress marks until he came to a parking lot. Except for a blue sedan with a registration plate from New York, it was empty.

Hearing the honking of a horn, John hurried back to Douglas, who was sitting in their car, looking at him expectantly,

"Something happened to Sherlock," John said, the moment he came back.

"I know," Douglas replied. "Get in the car." He leaned over and pushed open the passenger's door. "Looks like your Sherlock has found some friends while he was here. A bunch of black kids talked to me just after you went round to the back of the motel. Apparently they saw two guys carry Sherlock to a Ford pick-up and drive south less than an hour ago." Douglas started the engine. "We have only a few minutes until it'll be dark. When the National Guard catches us outside, they will arrest us. Even I can't do anything about it. Let's get out of town and see what's south."

John climbed into the car, obviously not the least bit happy, and Douglas accelerated the car even before he had closed the door properly.

oOo

Terrance Neilson decided that tormenting a person with a stun gun or punches, without being able to see the person's face, wasn't very satisfying. Except for a few grunts, Sherlock had been mostly silent while being beaten and the yelps of pain when the stun gun was pressed to the neck somehow didn't do the trick either.

Once they had arrived on the premises and parked the pick-up so it wouldn't be seen from the road, they had dragged their still unconscious prisoner inside an old barrack and handcuffed him to a wooden beam in the middle the room. The room, formerly used for storage, was almost empty. Only some trash revealed that at least for a while it had been used by junkies and youngsters who were in need of a dry place for drinking alcohol and smoking pot.

Having delivered another punch to Sherlock's side, Terrance gestured to his brother that he wanted to talk to him out of earshot of their prisoner and they went outside together.

Ted understood perfectly well how his brother felt and since they both had been with the CIA long enough that another dead man really didn't make a difference they decided to turn their prisoner around. Sherlock Holmes would be able to see who was responsible for his injuries as well as his rapidly approaching demise, simultaneously giving them the satisfaction of doing harm to his front as well as watching him crumble under the pain they intended to cause. And once they've had enough fun, they would torch this place; still the best method to dispose of a body and destroy evidence.

Going back inside, they subdued their prisoner with the stun gun and on-the-spur-of-the-moment, to add insult to injury in the most literally fashion, they stripped him of his clothes.

"While you're waiting for him to come round, I'll go and extract a couple of gallons of gas from the tank. This building is all old wood and should burn nicely," Ted said. The pick-up's tank was full and there was no need to drive to the next gas station when there was the possibility somebody would remember a guy with a pick-up, filling a couple of spare canisters.


	7. Chapter 7

It was pure coincidence that John noticed the fresh tire tracks on the short gravel road that led to a gate of an abandoned company yard. Chain-link fence with razor-wire on top and warning signs advertising Danger, Toxic Waste and recommended to keep out. Inspecting the gate closely, John hit pay-dirt. The chain was loped around the bars but had been cut with a bolt-cutter and only appeared to be untouched.

For several minutes John and Douglas perused the enclosed area before they opened the gate, slipped inside and hurried to hide in an old garage. Since Douglas wasn't very mobile with his artificial lower leg, although he was more agile than other men his age, John went to check the area by himself. Peeking around a corner he caught sight of the pick-up. He was just about to have a closer look when a door opened and a man came out. John shrank into the shadow of the building and studied the man.

He was perhaps fifty years old, of slim build and his thinning hair was a dirty-blond. Something seemed familiar, although John couldn't point his finger on who the man reminded him of.  
John watched him pulling a reserve tank and a hose from the pick-up's bed and fill the canister with gas from the pick-up's tank. A very bad feeling began to settle in the doctor's gut. He darted to the other side of the building and after a quick look around he hurried back to Douglas to tell him what he had found out.

The Colonel listened and thought for a minute. "There's no indication that there are more than two men. Think we can separate them and take them down?"

John nodded. "We could and we should because I have a very bad feeling."

They compared their watches and John sprinted to the back of the building, waiting for Douglas to arrive on his side and announce his presence. The idea was that Douglas would pretend to be some sort of caretaker of the property.

When the agreed time came, Douglas called out.

"Hello! Anybody there?" He had adorned himself with an old baseball cap and hid his gun inside the sleeve. For a change he used his cane but it was mainly to distract the man he was about to encounter. Even with his artificial lower leg, the Colonel was a formidable opponent.

Terrance and Ted looked at each other, when they heard a man calling out. With a nod, Terrance took the gun they had brought from the car, tucked it behind the belt at the small of his back and walked outside. Ted, reached for the stun gun once again and adjusted it to the highest setting. They hadn't done half as much damage as they had planned but perhaps it was best to end the whole ordeal now.

He had already piled up some old rags and pieces of wood. The canister with the gas stood next to the pile. The idea was to light the rags and wood with a dash of BBQ lighter fluid. They could watch the whole place bursting into flames from a safe distance.

John carefully opened the door and froze. The building consisted of one single room and in its centre, tied to a chair and completely naked, sat Sherlock. Several bruises were visible on his face and upper body but he looked worse than those could account for.

On a small table lay a knife and a man who stood in front of Sherlock, his back turned to John. The doctor stepped into the room. It looked like the man was about to deliver another charge to Sherlock when John's voice stopped him.

"Touch him again and you're dead."

The man froze and turned slowly. A grin began to spread on his face when he caught sight of John.

"Hey, tiny, why don't you toddle of?"

Ignoring the comment, John called out, "Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Yes. He's CIA," Sherlock replied.

Suddenly John knew how he knew the man. Well, not the man himself but he was related to the CIA agent who had been involved in the dealings with Irene Adler.

The man should have noticed the slight tilt of the doctor's head as well as the almost imperceptible role of his shoulders but perhaps he was too cocky. He missed the transformation from doctor to ex-soldier; very angry ex-soldier. Being CIA the man should have some training but John noticed that he moved like somebody who had retired some time ago to a desk-job.

Then everything happened at once. The man pressed the stun-gun to Sherlock's chest at the same time a shot rang out outside and John attacked. He managed to deliver two powerful punches to the man's torso but then the stun-gun was pressed to his right shoulder. Fortunately for John the batteries were already running low and the discharge hurt more than doing actual harm. Still, the ex-soldier was thrown to the ground and couldn't move his right arm after the electric shock. But the man had miscalculated John for being right-handed. With an angry yell John jumped up. He was on top of his opponent in a blink and punched the man in the face with all his might. His fist hit neither the chin nor the cheekbone but the man's nose, which broke with a satisfying scrunch.

Blood flew everywhere but John was so enraged that he kept punching, even when the man fell to the floor and no longer tried to defend himself.

Only when Douglas suddenly appeared at John's side and put a restraining hand onto his shoulder, he stopped.

Breathing heavily, John nodded and with knees shaking all of a sudden because all the adrenalin had nowhere else to go, he stumbled to Sherlock.

Although covered in bruises, the consulting detective looked at his doctor with glittering eyes. He watched while John carefully untied him.

Douglas, having discovered Sherlock's clothes in one corner of the room, handed the consulting detective his Belstaff, so he could at least cover himself. Sherlock thanked him with a curt nod before he leaned close to John to whisper is his ear, "You were amazing."

Wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock, the doctor managed to blush a bright scarlet at this praise and growled at Douglas, who snickered at his embarrassment.

"What happened to yourself, Doug?" John asked eventually.

The Colonel's face broke into a bright grin. "That idiot thought he could shoot me but I didn't even need to draw my gun. Knocked him out with my cane. I fear I might have broken his arm." Douglas didn't look the least bit sorry.

"I'll have a look at him, after I've checked Sherlock. Would you mind?"

Understanding the need for privacy, Douglas went outside to call the Sheriff.

When two police-cruisers and an ambulance arrived, Sherlock, John and Douglas stood outside. The two CIA agents were just coming round, their collective whining befitting their injuries.

With the promise that Sherlock, John and Douglas would show up the following morning for more thorough statements, Palin arrested the CIA agents and left.


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, a bit of a warning. The second part of this chapter might have slight tendencies towards an E-rating. If you don't like that, you better skip to the Epilogue.

* * *

Once John had checked Sherlock head to toe for injuries, he insisted that the three of them had dinner but in his doctor's eyes, Sherlock had seen it. The fire that had flared up after the fight.

If the Colonel hadn't been there, John would have ravished Sherlock right then and there. High on post-fight hormones charging through his veins, it would have been rough

Instead they sat in a diner next to the freeway, feasting on surprisingly good ribs that were dripping with sauce. While they ate, they regaled each other with stories about the case Sherlock had solved, how John and Douglas had met and relived the excitement of Sherlock's rescue.

When most of the food was gone and the sight of Sherlock licking barbecue sauce from his fingers became more interesting than the leftovers on the plate, John cleared his throat and suggested they tried their luck getting back to their hotel. A call to the Sheriff's office provided them with an escort and soon Douglas bid them good-night to retire to his own room.

Finally closing the door to their room, John sat down heavily on the queen-sized bed.

"You're okay?" he asked, studying Sherlock for more than the expected signs of fatigue.

Sherlock nodded and smiled softly before he first took off his coat and then bit by bit the rest of his clothes. For a moment he stood in front of the bed, slightly swaying on his feet but then John took his arm and guided him to the shower.

They circled through the bathroom with practised ease and before long climbed into the bed where they fell asleep within mere minutes.

oOo

Sherlock knew it was still early when he woke up but having slept next to his doctor left him more refreshed than when he slept alone. In the semi-darkness of the room he watched the rise and fall of the blond man's chest next to him before he quietly left the bed to use the bathroom.

When he came back he slipped beneath the sheets, determined not to disturb John but before Sherlock knew what was happening, strong fingers curled into his hair and soft lips pressed to his own.

"You're awake enough for a bit of fun?" John growled in Sherlock's ear, biting the shell playfully.

The detective couldn't even answer for he was rolled on his back and immediately pleasure speared through his body when a tongue was pushed past his lips. It was more a natural reaction than a deliberate act when Sherlock's mind opened wide to register everything that was John – his touch, his scent, his looks.

Although classically handsome and masculine, Sherlock was very aware of his own willowy body and the contrast to John's solid, muscular one. Especially now, that some ugly bruises decorated his own pale torso. But there was no pretence in John's eyes. All the love he felt for Sherlock came floating to the surface of his expressive face and the feeling made his deep blue eyes shine with adoration. If anything, the bruises made John feel more protective.

The totality of John's desire was intoxicating. Until John, Sherlock's body had been mostly transport, lust something he mostly handled himself. Not in his wildest dreams would he have guessed that the touch of another man could make him tremble almost uncontrollably with pleasure.

He pressed the whole length of his naked body to John's, wondering why even such close and intimate contact wasn't enough to rid him of his longing. Sherlock remembered the first time they had been intimate. One moment John had sat in his armchair, drinking tea, the next he had knelt in front of Sherlock, unzipping the expensive trousers and taking the rapidly hardening cock deeply into his mouth. This gesture of submission from the proud man had ripped a chocked sob from Sherlock's throat but then there had been only bliss.

Just like that evening Sherlock's body shuddered when John's blunt fingers ran delicately over his smooth, pale skin. The pain from the bruises bled from his body and was replaced with desire.

Hot lips kissed their way from the elegant neck to the dusky nipples and sharp teeth and a nimble tongue teased them into hard nubs. Without warning the base of Sherlock's cock was engulfed in a strong, perfect grip and in one deliberate stroke, John swept his tongue along the whole length, making Sherlock moan deeply in his throat.

For a while Sherlock enjoyed the skilful ministration before he pulled John up to kiss him thoroughly.

As always John was surprised by Sherlock's tenderness. The man's often harsh demeanour with no regard for other people's feelings was only the hard shell that protected the gentle soul that lay within. Now the long, elegant hands handled him like something delicate and the awe in the quicksilver eyes emphasized that Sherlock considered him as something very precious.

With an intense look Sherlock poured a generous amount of lube into John's hand before rolling onto his stomach, wiggling his artfully plush bottom invitingly. Unable to resist the offer, the doctor prepared his lover. And oh so slowly, wallowing in the sounds that tumbled from Sherlock's lips, he entered the man he loved with utmost care.

Moving together in unison neither man lasted long. Like an unstoppable force, John's orgasm approached with toe-curling strength. It flared up in his stomach and John cried out, gripping his lover's hips hard when the delirious pleasure peaked, threatening to drive him out of his mind.

Sherlock followed him over the edge just moments later, the sounds of John adding copious amounts of fuel to the flame that was already burning white-hot in his groin. The lean, sinewy body tensed and with a yell that probably resounded through the hotel all the way to the lobby, he nearly doubled over when the force of his orgasm hit him.

John didn't remember how he ended up cradled to Sherlock's chest but he really didn't care. Swiftly falling asleep again, all that mattered was the physical sensation of being close to his lover.


	9. Epilogue

After Douglas had dropped them off at the airport, the journey to Baker Street took less than twelve hours. Their heartfelt thanks had embarrassed the Colonel, who had been more than glad to help. Now at least he had some new stories to tell. Since a very cheeky smile was plastered on the man's face, John wasn't exactly certain if those stories would solely wrap around the rescue mission, but he refrained from asking.

It had been only three days since he had left London but John was more than happy when the cab finally stopped in front of their home. Apparently as happy as his doctor, Sherlock left John to pay for the fare, bounded out of the cab and disappeared inside the house.

The world's only consulting detective came back within a minute though, a funny expression on his face.

"We can't go back into our flat. Not before pest-controllers have sprayed the whole place."

John, who had just sent the cabby on his way, looked aghast. "What? Did one of your experiments explode while we were away?"

If Sherlock was alarmed, who didn't mind sharing living space with poison, fungi and body-parts, it was probably best to burn down the house and rebuilt it from scratch.

"No, it's Mycroft. He is upstairs, obviously suffering from mange and some mental disease."

"I don't understand." John got ready to check their flat and the elder Holmes but Sherlock held him back.

"My brother is standing stark naked in the middle of the flat, holding his umbrella over his head while reciting a poem about summer rain to Lestrade, who is lying in an equal state of undress on our sofa." Sherlock shuddered visibly.

"Too much information, Sherlock!"

"And," with a whirl of his hand Sherlock indicated the area of lower abdomen and groin, "my brother is missing whole patches of body hair. Mange, I presume."

John immediately remembered that Greg had experimented on Mycroft with mousse au chocolate, which had aggravated the elder Holmes because the mixture apparently had stuck together his body hair for good.

The doctor doubled over with laughter. "Actually," he snorted, "I have a feeling this is some sort of making up ritual and Mycroft most certainly doesn't have mange."

Sherlock actually looked disappointed at the last words.

John patted his arm. "Why don't we store our luggage in Mrs Hudson's flat and go to Angelo's to give them some space. We have something to celebrate anyway."

"I still demand a full cleaning because they're undoubtedly going to fornicate on our sofa," Sherlock said when he flagged down a cab two minutes later.

"Ewww!" John made a grimace that matched the disgust on his flat-mate's face.

"And may I ask what it is, that we're going to celebrate?" Sherlock asked and climbed into the cab.

Taking the seat next to his detective, John kissed him fondly before he replied, "My new," John was making air-quotes, "title. Thanks to you and your impromptu trip to the American continent, Sherlock, I am of now," the doctor lifted his chin proudly, "John ' **Four** Continents' Watson."


End file.
